


Monochrome Flower Patch

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Cannibalism, Gore, Other, Reader-Insert, Snuff, Tricksters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 10:00:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4259112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In life, you're powerless. In your dreams? Even more so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monochrome Flower Patch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [laZardo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laZardo/gifts).



Tricksters have always fascinated you.

Maybe it's that idea of letting go, which is something you so rarely get to do these days. You're always so busy, busy, busy, and it's barely ever with things you want to do. Sometimes you wish you could just flip a table and let it all go, let it all drain out across the ground. Sometimes, you really don't want to deal with anything. 

Take, for instance, right this second. You're in over your head with some project or another and your head is pounding, pulsing so hard you can barely take it, and your computer sits there blipping away at you as though you could possibly do something about it. You can't! You just can't. Looking at it gives you that gaping sensation, that feeling deep in your gut like you're never going to succeed, like you have to give up. You hate deadlines and you wish you could tell the person this is for to stick it where the sun don't shine, but. Well. You know just how well that would go over.

It's too anxiety-inducing; all the more reason the concept of trickster-dom fascinates you. There's no anxiety. There's no anything. You simply are what you want to be.

A little shiver runs up your spine and you almost moan with longing. Even the idea of that freedom makes you want to cry because you want it so bad.

But it's not real, and there's real-life work to be done. You swallow hard, rub sparingly at your eyes, and get to tapping away at your keyboard. It's slow going and you hate it, but before the night is out you've made a little progress. Hey, that's something to be proud of, even if every inch was suffering. You flop indelicately into the softness of your bed and cocoon the covers around you, some documentary or another flickering on your computer screen. It's not very loud, but the white noise lulls you to sleep.

At least, you assume you're asleep when the sound of some animal's death scream fades into dark nothingness. It's weird, but you don't feel like you're asleep at all. You sit up, weightless. Your computer is dark but not off, and your skin is prickling like a leg that's gone dead but is starting to wake up. You check the time but find you can't read the clock- the numbers spasm incomprehensibly, impossible to follow.

A spike of fear runs through you, but you remind yourself that dreaming is dreaming and everything's going to be fine. You stand from your bed, looking around warily. It's eerie, quiet. Not even the usual outside noises break this silence. In fact, you're not even sure there is an outside, because looking through the window nets you nothing. Seriously, there is nothing out there. It's not even inky blackness, and that's probably more terrifying. Instead, it's a lack- you can't tell what color it is because it's nonexistant. Your eyes can't trace it, can't even comprehend it.

You shudder and move from the window. Alright, so you're dreaming, hopefully, and you're in a spooky silent version of your home. Great.

That's when the giggling starts.

Of course that's when the giggling starts. Fortunately, with the giggling comes a light, every light in your room flaring to life simultaneously. Flowers of every shape, size, and color start to wreathe their way under your door, sprouting through the flooring and growing toward you, trying to catch your feet.

They succeed because you're entranced. The flowers are beautiful, mind-numbingly so, and so colorful that you're not sure what to do. Your eyes are burning a little bit, pupils shrunk to pinpricks, and you're stuck. You are well and truly stuck. Attempts to move your feet result in more of those vines and stems encircling them, and now the panic begins to set in. It's only a dream, you tell yourself.

You know that, but the adrenaline spike is all to real. The laughter becomes louder and louder, booming through your eardrums, so enormously _there_ that you're starting to get a headache, and then the door bursts open.

John's there, standing behind it, small and unassuming. There's an overwide grin on his face, straining at his cheeks, and his eyes are jolly and bright. "Hi!" he says, perfectly pleasant and as excitable as a four year old. He walks in like he owns the room, radiating this sensation of color and the scent of candy and it's delicious, delirium-inducing. Your heart starts thunking in your chest and your whole body screams danger, but you still can't move. Your eyes are starting to roll back even as you try to keep them pinned on John, but his presence is so strong, so abnormal.

He just watches you, his expression never changing. He is terrifying and he is everything you ever wanted to be in your dreams and, oh, there you go, collapsing. You fall backwards, at least, onto your bed. The jolt of it sobers you up some, enough that you can hear him giggling again. "Watch your feet," he chides you, waggling a finger. "Are you okay?"

Oh, he's friendly. Alright, you can deal with this. His grin might be manic and his flowers may have you all tangled up, but at least he's polite. "Uh, yeah."

"That's great! I guess you did only land on a bed, huh? Haha, silly me!" With every word, he approaches you until he's right there, right up in your personal space. He sits next to you with a mighty pomf, his side pressed right up into yours. 

It occurs to you that John is really warm. Like, he feels like a furnace and it almost burns to be near him. You try to move away but he just chuckles, right up in your ear. His breath is hot and ticklish and- well, that's an uncomfortable shot to the groin. "So!" he grins, practically nuzzling into you. "You want to be a trickster?"

You shoot him a confused look and then have to look away. His eyes are enormous and burning and beautiful and holy shit he's terrifying, why is he looking at you like that? "How'd you know?" you ask. You voice is audibly strained and if you didn't know any better, you'd say John's grin gets wider at that.

"I have my ways!" He winks, long blond lashes fluttering against your cheek- okay, how the fuck is he so close to you? His eye is literally pressed against your face at this point. It's wet and hot and sort of ridiculous. Again, you attempt to move away, but the vines hold you fast. "I mean, I get it! Being a trickster is great! You can do whatever you want whenever you want and if someone tells you otherwise you just," and then he giggles instead of saying a word. 

While you're slighty unnerved by that, you have to admit he's caught your interest. Actually, he's had your interest since he walked into the room. That's the side effect of such a dynamic entry, you guess. "Well, yeah," you mutter, still wary of speaking normally around this sparkling powerhouse. "That does sound awesome, but, uh. This is just a dream, right?"

John blessedly pulls back, even if it's only to howl with laughter. There's a damp spot on your face where his eye was. "What?" you say, a little indignant, but he just keeps laughing. It goes on for way too long, for hours and hours and yet for no time at all. When he's finally done he takes a full belly breath and wipes tears of mirth from his eyes.

"You're funny!" he tells you, clasping one of his searingly hot hands to your shoulder. It's like he's just cool enough to avoid burning you, but still almost too hot to handle. "It doesn't matter whether this is a dream or not! I'm here and, lucky for you, I'm more than willing to help you out!" John keeps on beaming at you, eyes gleaming, terrifying and mesmerizing. You can't bear to keep eye contact for very long. "Well? Do you want my help?" he asks in what basically amounts to a sing-song.

You hesitate. John hums while he waits for you, something familiar that you can't place.

"Yes," you croak, sounding utterly uncertain. 

Okay, this time you're certain you see his grin widen, though it shouldn't be physically possible. "Yay!" he cheers, and swings a leg around you, pulling himself up so that he's straddling your hips. He's a sweltering, writhing bundle on top of you, and it feels like fire when his lips press against yours. You don't have room to protest; you don't have room for anything. Your body is hot, hotter than it's ever been in a dream, and that's counting some pretty weird shit.

John's arms wrap around your neck enthusiastically, his overbite scraping at your mouth like he's trying to prove something. When you let him in, though, his tongue rolls across yours, darting and twisting and almost snake-like. He tastes strongly of lollipops. All your senses are overwhelmed by it, by him, by the thick viscous taste of his spit. He coaxes your tongue into his mouth with a lot of poking and prodding, drool running down your chin. It's fantastic, even if it's sudden, and hey- it's only a dream, right?

He bites down on your tongue. Hard. His buckteeth crunch and tear through the soft muscle, a burst of blood filling your mouths. You can't stop the shriek that escapes you, nor do you fight the instinct to jerk away. John lets you go, grinning, his teeth bright red. Blood fills your mouth and drips down across your lips, dribbles hot across your throat. It comes out in slow, steady pulses, faster now as you try to scramble away from him.

You can't. John's too strong and he has you pinned by the hips and at the legs. There's no way you can move and no way to escape. His giggling rings around you, more sinister now that your blood is smeared across his face.

Attempting to speak is painful and just makes more blood spill from your lips, but you manage to give him an adequate, "What the fuck?!" There's panic in you now, a little bit of struggle, and the coppery taste of your own life in your mouth is a little bit of a motivator, however futile that motivation is. There's a burning pit in your stomach, and you're not sure if it's nausea or if John's actually done something to you besides nearly bite of your tongue.

"Hehehe," he says, like that is helpful. "You said you wanted my help! I'm just providing. Durrr! Did you think it would be easy to become a trickster?" John reaches up and touches some of the blood collected at the corner of your mouth and smears it across your lips. In spite of everything, you shudder, and you can't for the life of you figure out why. John notices, of course, and just laughs a little more. "You are gonna love this!" he assures you, patting your cheek in the most condescending way.

You beg to differ, and you open your mouth to say so. John takes the opportunity to shove his finger into your mouth and press into the wound he'd created, digging in hard. Any words vanish as you scream, your back arching desperately, but he doesn't seem to care in the least. He just pulls hard enough that you think he might be trying to rip half your tongue out of your mouth. Panting harshly, you try to bite him, but it's like he doesn't even care.

No, it's more than that. The hard you bite down the further his finger curls and wilder his laughter grows. "Oh yes," you hear him moan, drawing it out low and slow, and your teeth relent immediately in horror. He's getting off on this, and the realization makes you sick to your stomach, all though that might be the _finger_ currently digging into your _tongue._

One of his hands grips your shoulder in an iron vice and eases you back. You have no choice but to lay down, even as tears gather in the corners of your eyes. John giggles breathlessly and drags his finger from your mouth, drawing it down to your collarbone. You can feel the blood sticking, drying, and you can't even say anything anymore. Noise comes out of you with every harsh breath, a whimper of pain that turns to a whine of fear as John leans down over you.

He's nose to nose with you, pressed up against you so tight you're afraid he might try to pry you open and get inside of you. That seems like a real possibility all of a sudden and it makes you want to puke. John's hands stay at relatively modest spots while he licks the blood from your face; one hand holds your chin so you don't move, and the other stays on your should. These terrified sounds keep escaping you, rapidfire and embarrassing and you don't care because you can feel him. He's hard, he's fucking getting off on this, and your mind just keeps whirling around and around that. It shouldn't be so surprising but it is, and you've never been so scared or felt so violated in your life.

Evidently, John decides your face is clean and pulls back. "And now the fun really starts!" 

Your stomach drops and you try to tell him to stop, try to shove him off. He brushes your hands off like flies, vines and flowers snagging them so he doesn't have to deal with them, presumably. "Gerroff," you choke out around the pulsating pain of your tongue. John looks at you with those blue eyes and just lets his grin split his face. He meets your gaze in the most terrifying way while he idly tears off your shirt. Scraps of it flutter in the bright light around you, but you only have eyes for John, who only has eyes for you.

You're caught. Absolutely caught. John continues to stare at you, challenging you to look away while his hand rests on your sternum. You can feel the power behind his fingers and you know he's going to kill you, and it's not going to be quick. 

You look away. As soon as you do, your world explodes into blood and pain and you're screaming, your voice shrill and then dying. There's this awful tearing sensation in your chest, but you can't look. You don't dare look, not when you can feel it peeling, the feeling of skin and meat separating from bone. 

There's nothing but agony, and there's so much of it you don't even know what anything else is. You don't know who you are or who you were or who you'll be. All there is the ripping, you skin slowly pulling away, being pinned back like butterfly wings. Your chest would be heaving but you're in too much pain to breathe.

"Hey, check this out!" John says, though frankly you'd forgotten he was there. Your eyes, rolled so far back into your head, flutter back to life. Blood and saliva drip from your chin, pooling somewhere under your neck. Checking out what sort of mangled mess your chest has become is very low on your list of interests as of right now, but you're too far gone to disobey. You look.

Your throat contracts hard and you fight the urge to vomit. How are you alive? Your chest is flayed open, every rib blood-stained and on display. Blood is pulsing out of you at an astonishing rate, staining John up to his elbows. Your head falls back, tears leaking from your eyes, and you're so _hot._ If John doesn't kill you first, you're going to burn alive.

Somehow, you think that the latter option is unlikely, especially as John begins to snap open your ribcage bone by bone. It's at this point that he begins to talk leisurely, his voice a cheerful backdrop to the horrendous things he's doing to your body. "I always love this part," he says, a little bit of a shudder in his voice. You don't want to bet on how much he actually does love this; his hard-on is still pressed against your leg.

"I think you might like it too," he grins, trying to meet your eyes, but when you can't put forth the effort he tsks. "Jeez, okay! I'm just doing what you asked!" His fingers, impossibly strong, deftly snap the little rib at the end of the cage and move to the other side. "You could show a little more gratitude, you know! But no, everyone always cries and screams!" John's voice kind of hiccups on the last syllable, his hips jerking in time with the snap of the last bone of your ribcage.

He laughs softly. "Oh well. You'll be thanking me soon enough!" John lifts tattered front husk of bone out of you, nibbles on it just once, and then tosses it to the side.

A wheezing, shattered sob breaks from your throat. You're in too much pain to think, let alone breathe, but you still have the capacity in you to make sounds. Some distant part of you might have found something to hate about that, but you aren't who you were. Not anymore. You're a bleeding husk with a trickster gently displacing your lungs and reaching for your heart. 

There's surprising tenderness in the way John pulls your heart out as far as it will go, eyeing it reverently. His dick twitches against you and you can't even bring yourself to care. Even the tears are perfunctory now. The pain and the heat overwhelm everything. Sensing the way you've gone still and dead, John shoots you this unreadable look. "Well, if you don't mind! I think I'll just," and he huffs softly, raising his hips to pull his pants down just slightly. He keeps your heart in one hand, downright meticulous with it.

John takes himself in his other hand, rubbing softly. He grunts and then laughs at himself, rocking back and forth. "Oh, it's been such a long time," he sighs, practically mewls. "I love the look in your eyes, I really do! And your heart; it's so," he bites down on his lip, digging in hard enough to draw a bead of blood. "Mmmm."

You find him leaning over you again, not that you have any fight left in you to really care. His cock, all glistening with your blood, burns against your skin, but it doesn't compare to the rest of it. It doesn't compare to the heart still beating in John's hand. John seems to think so too, pressing his lips to it. It's bloody and it's horrifying, but you're gone, you're dead already.

That's probably for the best, because John's teeth tear into your heart, jets of sanguine splashing out across his face and staining his glasses. He doesn't take much time chewing before swallowing another bite, and then another. There's blood everywhere, all over both of you, and you're light headed- no, not light-headed, dying.

You're finally, finally dying. 

"You're like me now," John tells you as you slip away, his voice breaking with little gasps and moans. 

Something sears into your stomach, something white and blazing and probably lollipop-flavored, but you're gone. Your vision slips into blackness.

"We are one in the same."

And you wake in your bed, your chest aching and your face wet with tears.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked reading this as much as I liked writing it! :]


End file.
